The flat was silent. She sat on the sofa, eyes blurring the scene of domesticity before her. Even with her vision obscured, she knew what each blob of colour was - the beige vanilla-scented candle on the coffee table, the pastel purple bottle she always drank out of because it held more than a glass and meant she didn’t have to continuously get up to fill it, the royal blue football mug that she had bought him when he’d complained he felt like everything in the flat felt feminine, not representing him or his ‘style’.

Her eyes snapped back into focus and landed on this mug as she heard a key in the lock. The sound of him coming home was so familiar to her that she felt she could conduct it. The scratch of metal on metal, clink as the key found its target, turn once, turn twice, three rattles to dislodge the dodgy lock they kept meaning to fix.

“I’m back!” his gruff, currently disembodied voice stated as she sank back into the comfort of the sofa cushions. With a quiet sigh, she angled her body towards the lounge doorway, where she knew he would momentarily materialise, and forced her cheeks upwards in the attempt of a smile.

Since the door had closed behind him this morning, she had been weighing up this moment in her head. How should she play it? Lose face by showing how she really felt or play nice, all was forgotten? Their conversation from this morning had bubbled away in her chest all day; she had not said all she wanted but knew that he had and, in all likelihood, for him the issue was resolved and done with.

Her smile wavered as he appeared at the door. “Y’alright?” he said, more of a greeting, she knew, than any kind of invitation to share her feelings. Not trusting her voice not to give her away, she nodded while sweeping into the kitchen.

“Do you want a cuppa?” she managed in a pitch that felt too high, too jovial - he must have noticed that surely.

“Yeah go on then,” was his reply, without an ounce of concern that she had apparently been replaced by some children’s TV presenter. Flicking the kettle on, she squeezed her eyes shut and felt the facade slipping from her grasp.

“Have you not done the dishes?” he asked from the lounge, “My mug is still dirty.”

A small, triumphant smile crept across her lips. “Oh shit sorry,” she called back, opening her mug cupboard and selecting the two brightest hot-pink mugs on the shelf, “Guess you’ll just have to borrow one of mine.”